my own personal list of grievances from last night:
- akira lost his title after just 6 days - not only that but i had to see him lay defeatedly on the floor after - jerry lawler had the audacity to be on commentary - baron lost to cena when he badly needed this win - seth rollins exists and i have to look at him - sheasaro lost their titles to a team that’s been together for a week - dean has yet to murder seth - i had to see naomi cry - sasha became champ again and further cemented her ugly asian fetish - billy ray cyrus exists and i have to look at him - kevin lost yet again and is most likely gonna feud with shane next - big cass looked like a pack of hot dogs - this enzo/cass/show match had the audacity to be on the main card - randal was there for 4 minutes and that was still too much to bear - the best match of the night (usos vs. new day) was on the kickoff - the hardy boyz performed in front of literally 13 people - brock lesnar exists and i have to look at him - brock retained with yet another bullshit win and is most likely remaining champ until wrestlemania
you know what i love? established apocalypse aesthetics
leaves and flowers and trees growing out of abandoned houses and cars, smashing glass windows, invading and reclaiming the spaces humanity took from them
warning scrawled hastily on the sides of buildings in spraypaint or in blood; don’t come here, it’s not safe. turn away, go back. we died here. you will too.
notes and messages scattered across the world, addressed to people who never saw them or never lived to reply to them. rachel, we’re alive. david, don’t look for us. amy, dad got bit, please come home, we need you. kim, i love you.
people broken into tiny groups. society shattered. they are past the anger, past denial, past trying to fix any of it. now there is only begrudging acceptance, and the knowledge that nothing is ever going to get better. the only thing they can do is survive.
a skeleton lying at the foot of a tree, flowers blooming in its ribcage. a bloodstained note in its front pocket. ‘sorry, mom’. travelers see it and barely spare a thought; such things are commonplace.
roaming packs of dogs and cats still wearing their collars, centuries of domestication breaking down under the need to live and to keep living
families born of blood and sacrifice. trading stories over campfires about who they used to be, who they might have been, what they could have become if none of this ever happened. looks of understanding when someone loses a sister, a brother, a father. it happened to me, too.
abandoned bedrooms combed over for supplies, but the faded posters still hanging on the walls and the useless knickknacks on the shelves tell the stories of the people who lived there years ago
moss covering television sets, water lapping up into backyards, tree limbs shooting up through collapsed roofs, evidence of humanity being eroded one day at a time